Jane
by The Die Hard
Summary: Inspired by WaffleNinja. 9-year-old Clark spends a day with his old babysitter.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Clark Kent in all his incarnations belongs to corporations. I'm just providing the playground. Original character: if you can figure out how to pronounce her name, have at it.

Sequel to "Babysitter," which was inspired by LaCasta. All the credit, and none of the blame, for this one goes to WaffleNinja, who had some interesting insights into, and ideas about, the years we didn't see.

And of course, as always, many thanks to all reviewers for their encouragement and suggestions, even MarkMark (grin), who in real life must be a grammar instructor. (Mark, I honestly thought I had typed those extra letters. I blame the Bush regime.) All of you were right about all of it, and someday I'll get the cat off the keyboard long enough to correct them.

_**Jane**_

Clark was hatching a plan.

His parents had learned, as he grew out of toddler-hood into a responsible and well-behaved youngster, to be wary of that secretive gleam in his all-too-innocent expression.

Unfortunately for them, they knew, Clark had also gotten to be very, very good at keeping secrets. Their own fault, they supposed, having so often stressed the importance of not getting "caught." But still, a nine-year-old shouldn't be able to smile and shrug and toe the ground so guilelessly when you KNEW he was up to something.

They'd given up on monitoring his e-mail. Clark flicked through screens so fast that sometimes he'd read a book while waiting for the computer to catch up. They'd mentally thrown their hands in the air in surrender, given him the age-appropriate lectures, discovered that he not only already knew about "those places" (and thought they were "BOORE-ing"), but also already knew about computer viruses and worms.

"Pete's brothers told us about the one that practically crippled NASA," he'd said matter-of-factly. "Don't ever click on an .exe, even when it comes from someone you know. The virus raids your e-dress book and sends it on."

Jonathan and Martha just looked at each other. "By the time he's twelve, he'll be telling me how to run the farm."

"Oh, no, dad," Clark said earnestly. "But I did find this really great book on organic enhancement techniques...." Which turned out to be from the professional research section of the county library, and about 600 pages thick.

(It amused the "Library Ladies" no end when the third-grader earnestly asked their advice, and made them surreptitiously wink at each other in approval when he dragged his schoolmates over to the Reference Desk and give them an impatient lecture on when they were SUPPOSED to ask for help.)

"Clark, 'age-appropriate' also includes not using phrases like 'enhancement techniques' until at least junior high."

Clark went quiet for a few seconds, as if filing away and reorganizing what he knew against what he was supposed to know. "Thanks, mom. I'll remember. The lady did look at me kind of funny when I went through the research section."

"Hopefully she thought you were just looking at the pictures."

So the high-speed home computer was well worth the usurious loan, if it kept Clark's high-speed mind occupied and out of trouble. If he wanted to send a thousand e-mails a day, they were just going to have to trust that he knew better than to send them all to one place, and that the computer was slow enough that it didn't look like he was a virus himself.

Clark was well aware of this, of course. He'd figured out years ago that most people's senses weren't quite as acute as his. (The exception being the barn cats, who had been suspicious of him ever since they discovered that he was claw-proof, and was faster than they were, and had learned to keep one ear pointed in his direction at all times.) He knew pretty much exactly what he could get away with, and when he was being spied upon.

So, an e-mail to Pete, and e-mail to Lana, an e-mail to the town paper under an assumed name criticizing the parking, an e-mail to several national papers criticizing factory farms, an e-mail to a couple of researchers who were pursuing outliers on the human genome, and an e-mail, carefully snuck in, to a woman he had secretly been keeping in contact with for years now, and who had gleefully joined in his game of keeping their "relationship" from her old friend, his mother.

"Hi, 'J'. Hope you're hanging in there."

He paused, wondering if that weren't in bad taste. 'J', their private e-mail shorthand for "Jane" – the Anglicized version of her Eastern European name – had been his first babysitter, and had terminal bone cancer. But somehow she'd beaten all the doctors' gloomy predictions, and she was still getting around under her own power, though not without help, or bad days. Well, no point in refusing to face facts.

"Wonder if you could help me out with a trick here. My parents' anniversary is coming up, and they somehow don't think I can be left alone for a weekend."

Hm, no point in bringing up the fact that the last time he'd been left alone for two hours, well, best not to go into details about what trying to clean out the barn at high speed had ended up coating the walls with.

"Could you maybe convince them that you can keep an eye on me for a weekend while they go take some time off and celebrate? You know I can take care of things. We can play chess maybe. I suck at chess. Who invented a knight's move anyway? Just weird."

"And I've actually learned to cook a little. Let me know what you like, and I'll wheedle mom into laying in supplies. I promise not to let the dog lick the bowl this time." Even invulnerability wasn't all that great for cleaning up dog leftovers. Dogs had resilient stomachs, but also extensive methods of expressing their dislikes.

"Really looking forward to seeing you again, if you can spare the time." He hoped that was evasively polite enough. "Until later, this is your worst student at cartwheels, signing off."

The answer came so fast he might have suspected Jane of super-speed herself. "Which weekend, and do you like cornbread?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two, and I am not going to bore you with why it took so long.

Sometimes I can't imagine how people wrote novels before computers. And then sometimes I can't imagine how anything gets written with a computer. Six thousand words, one lightning strike, and I wish I had written it all with fountain pen and tree bark….

Anyway, WaffleNinja dared me to go through with this, so in honor of her perseverance in daring to stick through the toughest years of college (and the audacity of the funniest persona picture I've seen in awhile), I'm throwing the cat off my lap and putting the dog's food in the other room and trying to remember what it was like to be nine years old. (Not counting the superhuman part.)

Chapter two. Sequel to "Babysitter." Spoilers: none. Unless you really didn't know that Clark Kent wasn't from Earth…?

JANE

Jiaclavisch Caghlurski kept her ancient VW to exactly the speed it would go without vibrating apart. The Bug had become something of a dare among the high school mechanics class. A great deal of it was held together with duct tape, well decorated by bumper stickers. Some of the repairs were the product of kids going "hey, what if we…" Most of it was held together with hope.

Since she'd been given six months to live eight years ago, she was inclined to believe that the old car ran on hope.

Kind of a symbol of her whole life. From the Olympics to a small town, from escaping the guns as a child herself to meeting the most extraordinary child anyone could imagine, she may not have led a charmed life … but she'd certainly led one she would not have traded for anything.

She turned carefully into the long road leading to the Kent farm, tooling around the potholes, nursing the old Beetle into the spot she remembered so clearly from those years ago that she could have drawn the whole scene, complete with word balloons.

The first time, she'd hit it at a screaming run, driven by Marty's panic when Jon had nearly cut his leg off. The second time, she'd at least managed to navigate a straight line, even confused and disoriented and still wondering if what she thought she had seen was real.

Had the cancer spread to her brain, or had she really just seen a toddler casually do things that martial arts masters would not be eager to try?

This time, she grinned widely when the young boy came bouncing out of the house. (Why hadn't she made more time to see him more often? Life just always got in the way…. Amazing how a few years could be an eternity, and just the other morning, all at the same time.)

"Miss Jane! I didn't tell mom and dad why you were here. You won't let on, will you? They think I'm cheating with my, you know, abilities, when I mess with stuff behind their backs."

Jane ruffled his hair. "I don't think you're cheating. I think you're being as thoughtful and wonderful a son as anyone could ask for."

Clark looked down. He tried to blush and go pale at the same time, which gave him unpleasant blotches.

Jane gave him a quick hug. Even at nine, he was nearly as tall as her gymnast-size frame. He hugged her back, very very carefully. Maybe he remembered what she'd told him about having fragile bones, even though that had been years ago.

Maybe he was more worried about his own strength. She'd seen him crack a branch in his baby hands that she could barely have lifted. What could he do now? The poor child. Afraid to touch anything, not sure of how easily it could be broken….

"Come on," she mock whispered, conspiratorially. "I have a surprise for your mom and dad. We'll have the whole weekend to ourselves."

Clark's oddly jewel-tone changeable eyes gleamed.


	3. Chapter 3

More words finally made their way onto the computer. (Blessings upon FFNet , even if their download software takes a sysadmin to navigate it, because they have all that's left of what was on my hard drive. Here's hoping they have serious backup capability in case of solar storm EMP.)

Chapter three. Clark and his old babysitter deviously get rid of the parents for the weekend. (Who would believe Clark Kent could be devious?) The real stuff that WaffleNinja wanted is yet to come, but I wanted to get this off before the next lightning storm.

Off-topic shout-out: a TWoP review referred to Clark as looking like a Labrador retriever. I laughed so hard, my Very Stupid black Lab puppy gave me a confused Clark look. I laughed again every time the puppy looked at me. The ears even convey the same expression. If you've never seen a black Lab puppy looking confused at you, just put questioning eyes, ears, and a curious wagging tail on Tom Welling. If Shelby had been a black Lab, the camera wouldn't have been able to tell them apart in long distance shots.

Hopefully I'll be able to get through this without the dog stealing the scene. Though if Lab puppy gives me THAT look again, all bets are off.

"Hey, mom!" Clark bounded through the door like (no, I'm not going to say it). "Guess who's here!"

"From the sound of the engine," Martha said mildly, not looking up from the table where she was tabulating columns, "I'd say it was someone who has an obsessive-compulsive attachment to a car that should have been buried with honors three administrations ago." She abandoned the paperwork to get up and give her childhood friend a light hug. "Jia! What brings you all the way out here? Teaching yoga is so boring you have to come to Smallville for excitement?"

Jane had long ago given up on trying to explain to Martha that her midwestern-accent attempt at the foreign name was actually a mild obscenity. Marty would always insist on believing that she was honoring her friend with a valiant attempt.

"Actually, I came to ask you a favor." She caught Clark's eyes over Martha's shoulder, and barely managed the slight warning expression to get it through to him that he was not to jump up and down and whoop. "I was so bored, I called into one of those radio contests the other day, and look what." She held out two tickets.

"I won the Metropolis Orchestra Night Out concert tickets, can you believe it? Like I'd know what to do with a concert ticket, never mind a weekend at some hotel. I was hoping for the automatic vacuum, you know, that little robot thing. They were giving away some thousand of them, they're such trash, but I could always use it to chase the cat out from under the bed. Instead I get the grand prize. I should only have such luck with the cat. I don't suppose you and Jonny would be interested in the concert? Hate to see it go to waste."

Martha stood there, so paralyzed that Clark gave her a worried look. "The … Metropolis … Night… Out ?"

"This weekend, I think." She peered at the tickets. (Pretended to, anyway, Clark noted, seeing as that her irises didn't change size.) "Sorry about the short notice. I didn't even think to look at what I thought was junk mail until somebody mentioned that someone around here had won them."

(Outright lie, Clark thought unhappily, picking up without even trying on the indications, as her heart rate and blood pressure changed. Drat it all, was he never going to be able to just let people mean what they wanted to say?)

"It covers some kind of breakfast, probably the usual so-called continental coffee and stale biscuits, but it doesn't say anything about parking." She sounded disappointed. Flat lie again, Clark heard in the slight change in pitch. She knew exactly what it included.

"Oh, well." Jane shrugged. "The hotel should cover parking for the night. If they give you a hard time, I have a student whose dad is a lawyer." She turned away so that Martha would not see her wink at Clark. Clark had to pretend to go to the bathroom to keep from choking on laughter in front of his mom.

The front door opened as the hall door closed. "Hello, beautiful." Jonathan had slapped off as much of the yard dirt as he could, but he still only air-kissed at Martha. "And hello, long-time-no-see, beautiful lady." He bowed a little in lieu of offering a grimy hand. "What brings you out our way, seeing as no one is the victim of farm tools this time?"

For answer, Jane held out the two slips of cardboard. Martha crossed her arms and bowed her head. It was too much to accept, to much to ask….

"The … Night Out …?" Jonathan repeated in disbelief.

"Me and my stupid luck. Can't get what I want, can't use what I get." Jane flipped a hand. "I can't even sit for three hours without having someone come straighten my back out to be able to stand up and walk. And a hotel room? I have a cat sitter, but Brandy would claw my face if she thought I'd left her over the weekend to sit by myself in a hotel room."

"Jonathan," Martha said hesitantly.

"I know, I know." Jonathan closed his eyes briefly. "I was…. I really did have something planned for our anniversary. A picnic in the park. I even had some flowers picked out. But I … I can't compete with this. I'm sorry."

Jane strolled up to him, the trained controlled swagger of a competition gymnast used to performing for the judges, and shoved the man - who was more than a foot taller, and nearly triple her weight - back against the counter, flat hand to his chest.

"YOU'RE sorry? Jonny Kent, if I ever hear that from you again, I WILL hit you. No matter how many bones I break. YOU'RE sorry? You trusted me with the most amazing revelation that anyone could ever have been privileged to have. You made MY life worth living, to know what miracles are possible! You have accomplished wonders that entire worlds would respect, you have done more than I would have trusted anyone else in history to do, and YOU'RE SORRY? Go take a shower, and pack for the weekend, before I change my mind about hitting you."

She cursed briefly in a language and words that she would not have used, had she remembered that Clark could both hear and remember everything.

Jonathan looked helplessly between the two women. Martha was looking down, biting her lip. Jane was glaring at him, hand clenched on her cane as if ready to use it as a weapon. He was stronger than anyone in the county, except Clark (well, that was kind of out of the ball park), but he was helpless before the silence of the two small women.

"I don't have anything to wear," he ventured.

"Jonny, anything clean and without holes will do. Nobody's taking pictures." I hope, she subvocalized. On the other side of the wall, Clark fought very hard not to make a noise. "Besides, with Marty beside you, who's going to look at YOU?" Clark peered around the corner and gave her a thumbs up.

"I think I can still wear my red dress," Martha said hesitantly.

"Oh, honey. That would be perfect. Let me wash up while you pack. Clark!"

Busted. Clark had yet to learn that although humans had nothing close to his senses, they had eyes in the back of their heads when it came to their children. "Yeah, dad?"

"I know it's a lot to ask, son. But it would mean something … very special to your mother and me, if you could take care of the farm. Just for one day."

Clark rolled his eyes, a gesture he'd learned from Pete. (Actually from Pete's brother Stan, and in a context that he wasn't about to mention to his parents, but it seemed appropriate.) "Dad. I know not to milk the cows at high speed, or scare the chickens, and if the electric does go out again, I won't try anything more than the usual. I didn't break anything last time, okay?"

"That's true." Jonathan ruffled his hair. Clark endured it. He wasn't quite old enough yet to care what his hair looked like. "Thanks, son. We'll try to make it up to you."

Clark went very still, his eyes suspiciously bright, for just a second - a long time, at his speed of perception. "Dad…. What you've already done for me, I can't ever repay."


End file.
